“There is not,” he said finally, his tone deep and low.
“Not what?”
“Not good in me,” he whispered. “‘Tis but a hoax.”
He sat on her floor like a small boy wounded in her defense. He did not demand to know how she had come by the necklace. He did not now seek revenge. Instead, he mourned the lives of two villains with souls as black as hell. “So you’ve been pretending to be good, have ya, Scotsman?” she asked.
He gazed past her into the flame. “Aye. Roman the Wolf, so serious, so steady, so staid. Na reiving was tolerated when I was at Glen Creag. Na even the meanest theft. The Hawk would play tricks, and the Rogue would …” He seemed to relax a smidgen more. “Roderic the Rogue would do anything he wished. But Roman was forever the guardsman of the weak and the frail. The protector of justice.”
For some reason beyond her ken, she longed to touch him. “But ‘twas all an act,” she whispered. “To keep the evil in you at bay.”
Surprise showed stark and wild in his eyes, and for a moment, she thought he would question how she knew, but instead, he set his jaw in a hard line. “‘Tis na longer at bay. The evil is freed.” His fist tightened.
Against her will and better judgment, she moved closer. His skin was warm beneath her fingertips, and gently, ever so gently, she smoothed his shirt over his shoulder and down his arm. It fell away from the oozing gash across his biceps. “Then why this?” she asked. “Why did you not let them have me?”
Silence held the place. The mouth-watering steam from the hot soup wafted between them.
“‘Tis ye that will lead me to the Shadow,” he intoned, his eyes flat and steady. “And I will have me revenge.”
She watched him closely. Revenge had made him save her? Revenge and nothing more? ‘Tis what he said, and she must believe him. She must, to save her own life. She drew that knowledge about her like a protective veil and rose jerkily to her feet.
“So you think to turn the Shadow over to Dagger? Is that it?” Her voice was shrill, her hands tightly clasped against the tattered fabric of her boys’ garments. “You think to cause his death?”
“Aye.” His voice was deep and menacing.
“Well, you won’t!” She spun toward him.,“You won’t because he is already dead.”
Roman’s eyes widened then narrowed into a scowl. “Ye lie.”
“Sweet Mary!” she sobbed, conjuring up every bit of sorrow she could. This must be her finest performance if she were to survive. “If only ‘twas true. If only …” She collapsed to the floor, feeling the misery sweep through her like a blaze gone wild, making herself believe she was what she said she was—the Shadow’s woman. She was alone, so alone with no hope without the Shadow.
She never heard Roman move, but suddenly he was beside her, gripping her arm in a hard clasp and pulling her upward. “Ye lie. The bastard stole the necklace, and—”
“Aye!” Tears wet her face and blurred her vision. She swiped them aside. “Aye, he stole it,” she whispered. She had played a thousand roles since coming to Firthport. She could play this one. “As he stole many things. But never for himself. He believed in sharing.”
Roman’s scowl deepened. He loosened his hold on her arm. “What’s this new lie?”
She clasped her arm where he had held it and settled back on her heels. “Ya do not know the evil that is Firthport,” she whispered. “The hunger. The fear. ‘arry fed the hungry, abolished the fear.”
“Harry?”
She closed her eyes, willing up the necessary emotions. “Some of what I said before was true. ‘arryy was my lover. My love. And now he is gone. But he was not a duke. He was a simple man. Simple and perfect,” she whispered. “But now I am alone.”
“If he is dead, why do Dagger’s men still search for him?”
She laughed. The sound was eerie. Her expression would look wild in the shifting light, she knew, and her hands shook. “Are you so naive as to think Dagger is the only evil force in all of England?” She shook her head. “The Shadow went where he wished, took what he fancied. No lock could hold him out. Every door was open to him. He was a jester, a knight, a peasant. An angel,” she whispered. “But angels cannot long survive in hell.”
“If he is dead, who kilt him?”
She shook her head. “He took from the rich, and the rich have power.” Turning, she paced away, embracing thoughts of her father, her mother, her loss. Tears stung her eyes. “For all I know it could have been the girl’s father who first wanted the necklace. Mayhap he craved revenge just as you do.” She stopped and let her eyes fall closed. “It matters naught who killed him, only that he is gone forever. Only that my life …” She paused, feeling overwhelmed by the sadness that rushed up at her. She felt the floor tilt, felt herself tip sideways.
“Here.” Roman gripped her arm and eased her to the mattress. “Sit.” Retrieving the meal she had left by the door, he brought it to her.
She shook her head, keeping her eyes closed. “It’s for you,” she whispered. “I, too, believe in sharing.”
“Eat,” he ordered, but she shook her head.
“There is no reason,” she whispered. “Why should I wish to prolong my life with him gone?”
“Mayhap ye dunna,” Roman said. “But I do. For ‘tis ye who will help me get the necklace back.”
Chapter 12
She lied. That much he knew. But what parts of her tale were untrue exactly? He didn’t know, and so there seemed little reason not to play along. But he would be cautious now. Question every word, doubt every nuance.
Who was this woman? A barmaid, a whore, a thief? He watched her closely, focusing all his concentration on her.
In a moment she nodded. “‘Tis right that I help you. ‘Tis right.” She laughed, the sound hollow. “We cannot win against the Dagger’s army. I know that this venture will cause my death. Yet, even though I know death is the vehicle that will take me to my ‘arry, I am afraid. I am a coward,” she whispered.
Whatever she was, she was not a coward, Roman thought. She had removed the floppy hat, and her hair, blond and full and soft, fell down her narrow back in long cascades. “Drink,” he repeated, pushing the cup toward her.
“No.” Her voice was stronger now. She forced a smile. “Ya saved my life. ‘Tis the least I can do to give you food and drink, Scotsman.”
“Roman.”
She tilted her head in question.
“Me name,” he said. “‘Tis Roman of the clan Forbes.”
Lifting the bread and bowl from the floor, she raised it toward him. “Eat, Roman of the Forbes.”
It was a kind of discipline that had kept him from the food, but hunger was overpowering now, filling his senses, weakening him both physically and mentally. He tried to swallow the painful fill of his salivary glands, but he had waited too long, and the food was too close. Not since childhood had he known such hunger.
He took the bowl with shaking hands and tipped it to his mouth. It smelled of sweet onions and fine fowl. It tasted so rich and heavenly that the sharp necessity of it hurt his mouth.
She studied him over the edge of the bowl before handing him the bread. He tore off a piece, remembering control, holding on to discipline as if it were a lifeline tied to the last vestige of sanity.
Slowly, carefully, he dipped the bread into the broth. The taste filled his mouth and his soul.
Tearing a bit of crust from the loaf, Tara nibbled on it and watched him. But he barely noticed her now. When she handed him the cup, he drank, and when she refilled the bowl, he ate again.
Finally, he was sated. Seated on her mattress, he leaned his head against the wall and studied her.
“So ‘twas ye that told the Shadow of the necklace?” Roman asked.
She turned away, and on her cheeks was a flush. Of shame? Or was the expression a hoax like everything else?
“‘Twas I,” she whispered, wringing her hands and seeming to draw herself into her own memories. “‘Tis true. There is a �
�� a babe in Middlecastle. Wee Sineag. No bigger than a gosling is she.” Her voice was singsong, haunting, reminding him somehow of the wild winds of his homeland.
“With hair as bright as an evening blaze. She coughed so, ya’d think ‘twould split her in two.” Tara paused and seemed to shake herself mentally. “‘arry he…” She clasped and unclasped her hands, looking almost surprised to find herself in her own hovel with no babe in sight. “He could not bear to see another suffer. Some of the money from the necklace would have gone to buy an elixir.”
Roman watched her face, searched for lies. There was pain in her expression. Pain and sorrow, and nothing else he could discern.
“How did ye know where I stayed? How did ye find me?” he asked.
“Caraway seeds.”
Roman narrowed his eyes.
“Mistress Krahn of the Queen’s Head uses it heavily in her cooking. I could smell it on ya.”
“Ye lie,” he said, but her words seemed too outlandish to be anything but the truth.
“Nay. ‘Tis true,” she said. ” ‘Arry taught me much before …” She drew a deep breath and lifted her chin slightly, as if fighting back tears. “Oft he said that we use but ‘alf our senses. He taught me to use all I have. He gave me worth, gave me…” Her bottom lip trembled. “He gave me much.”
“So ye told him of the jewels, and he went to the Queen’s Head disguised as John Marrow. After that ‘twas an easy enough task ta slip beneath me rented bed and wait until I fell asleep.”
Tara shrugged. “I do not know his exact methods. All I know is that he had the necklace before morning.”
“Why did he give it to ye? Why did he na sell the jewels and give money to the babe’s mother?”
Something fleeted across her eyes. She rose abruptly to her feet. “James is … James was missing.
Roman waited for an explanation.
“He was a fence for stolen goods. The only fence ‘arry trusted. ‘Twas I who usually delivered the goods. In fact…” She turned, twisting her hands. “The night you watched my house, ‘twas I you chased, for I was trying to take the necklace to James. I escaped down the hatch beneath the trunk in my old house.”
“Thus I never saw ye leave.”
She nodded. “I thought I was safe then I heard ya and started running. Ya nearly caught me, for my legs were failing. But I saw an open window and scrambled through.”
“I ran on and attacked George, who happened to be returning from the inn.”
“Poor George.” The tiniest spark of humor flashed in her eyes. And though Roman knew he should hate her, he could not help but want to see her smile.
“Poor George?” he said. “‘Twas me that was beat upon the head. And ‘twas me that barely escaped the white hound.”
One corner of her bonny lips tilted upward. “You neglected to take him a gift to calm him.”
For a moment Roman puzzled over her words, but then the truth dawned. “Ahh, so that was the purpose for the plate of bones I saw in yer house the first time.”
“He was a wonderful watchdog,” she said. “He would growl at anyone not bearing gifts and warn me of goings and comings. But since that day he only wags his tail and whimpers when someone passes by. I cannot help but wonder why.”
“We had a disagreement.”
She watched him. “Mayhap you have a chance against the Daggermen after all, Scotsman. But I…” She paused. “Not I. For they know I was involved with the Shadow. Dagger will not rest until I am dead.”
“How does he know?”
“They killed James. I feared he was in trouble when I went to deliver the necklace and he wasn’t ‘ome. I feared the worst, that he would tell the Shadow’s identity. But even the Dagger couldn’t break that loyalty.”
“But the fence told Dagger about ye?”
“Aye, and I cannot blame him. Dagger has …” She shuddered. “Dagger has ways of making men talk. But James is dead now. Out of their reach.”
Her face was mobile and alive, expressing her sorrow, her resignation. Was she lying now? Damn him! He couldn’t tell. “We live for the living,” she said softly. “I’ll see to your wounds.”
Moving to the fire, she wrapped a rag about the handle of the water kettle and lifted it from its swinging metal arm. After pouring a portion of the water into a bowl, she replaced the kettle and slipped his sliced shirt past his wrists.
Bare but for his amulet, his chest looked like the massive torso of some ancient warlord.
Tara swallowed, then dunked a cloth into the steaming water and wrung it out.
For a moment, their gazes met.
“This will hurt,” she warned.
He nodded then flinched as she settled the warm cloth against his biceps. His muscles twitched, but he remained as he was.
The wound was long but not deep. She washed it carefully. Beneath her hands, his skin was warm, his muscles rigid and mounded. She lifted a strip of cloth and wrapped it carefully about his arm.
Every moment he watched her. The room was silent but for an occasional crackle from the fire.
“You’ve…” She swallowed again. He had saved her life, true, but she could not allow herself to trust him. Not now, not ever. “You’ve neglected your wounds,” she said softly.
“In truth I barely noticed them. What of wee Sineag?” he asked.
She lifted her gaze to his. Who was this man who would concern himself with a wee lass he had never met? She forced herself to shrug, trying to act unconcerned. “Mayhap God will see fit to see her healed without intervention,” she said, and turned the conversation aside. “Your limp is new. Surely you took note of your leg wound?”
“There is something to be said of rage,” he said. “It blinds one ta pain. In truth, I’ve been living to find ye.”
She swallowed. Even though she vividly remembered their time alone together in her room, she knew it was not infatuation that caused him to follow her. Nay. Hardly that. It was hate. And yet, even knowing how he felt about her, she couldn’t seem to keep her hands from him.
“I’ll tend to these,” she said, touching a healing laceration.
A muscle jumped beneath her hand, but before she could draw away he caught her wrist. “Why?”
His gaze was like the arc of a hot, green flame. She battled to continue to breath.
“Once there was a girl,” she whispered. “She was a small lass, alone but for an old man called Cork, a man who thought she did not deserve to die in a filthy Firthport alley. There will always be dreamers,” she said, mimicking his words from not long before.
“Who are ye?” he whispered.
“Betty,” she forced herself to say, but he shook his head.
“Nay, ye are na. I dunna ken who ye are, but Tara feels right. Thus I will call ye that until I learn the truth.” His hand slipped from her wrist. Her fingers trembled, but she forced herself to rinse the rag and wring it out again. Shakily, she cleansed his chest. It was hard, crafted of fine hills and valleys. Her breath came faster.
His left wrist was bloody. She washed it, too, marvelling at the thickness of the bone, the denseness of the muscle.
Her gaze slipped downward. There was a scratch across his abdomen. She slipped the cloth over that slight wound. The muscles coiled like magic beneath her hand.
“Did I hurt you?” she whispered.
His eyes were sharp and clear, the muscles in his jaw, tight. “Nay.”
“I…” For just a moment, for just one singular instant, she wanted to tell him the truth, to cleanse her soul, to share more than that which she could hold in her hand. But if the truth be known, her will to survive was stronger than all else. “I noticed your limp.”
He merely watched her, saying nothing.
“You did not limp when first I met you.”
“I did not kill people on a daily basis either, lass.”
Guilt was a new emotion for her. It had no place in her life. Tara shoved it to the back of her mind for later examination, but kep
t the expression on her face.
“Do ye regret their deaths?” he asked, watching her.
She shook her head. “But I regret your involvement.”
He reached out very slowly and touched her face, his fingers gentle against her skin. She closed her eyes.
“‘Tis strange,” he whispered. “It seems ye could do anything, and I would still desire ye.”
She hid her surprise, though he had voiced the feeling she’d refused to allow herself to recognize. “I…” She knew she’d lost the expression of guilt, and wondered now with some fear what her face revealed. She would be a fool to drop her guard with him. And fools died young. “I’ll see to your leg.”
For a moment, she thought he would refuse. For a moment, the coward in her hoped he would, but finally he settled back. “‘Tis na the first time I’ve been at yer mercy, lass.”
The points had been unlaced from his doublet. Tara licked her lips and eyed them, the fabric below, the bulge.
“I can see ta the wound meself.”
“Nay,” she said, forcing her gaze to his face. “Nay,” she repeated, calming her voice. “Ya saved my life. And I would do what I can for ya.”
“Am I allowed to make suggestions?”
She tried to control her blush, but through all her deceitful years that was the one thing she had not conquered. “Decidedly not.”
He shrugged. She bit her lip, said a silent prayer to a God who listened to sinners and saints alike, and reached for the top of his hose.
‘Tara?”
“Aye?” She whipped her hands back to look into his face.
“Have ye ever wondered what a Scotsman wears beneath his plaid?”
She shook her head, feeling suddenly foolish and far out of her depth.
“They wear naught,” he said. “And they wear the same under their English garments. I can tend the wound meself.”
She managed to shake her head again.
“Ye could at least give me a blanket and turn away for a moment.”
She retrieved the woolen with shaky hands, gave it to him, and showed him her back.
When next she looked at him, his tattered shirt had been shoved beneath his knee and he was naked but for the blanket that covered his body at a crooked angle. His chest was exposed, as were his shoulders, and the wounded width of one powerful leg. It made an erotic picture, the mighty male, awaiting her touch.
Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) Page 13
